Whose streams our inward thirst appease,
And heal the sinner's worst disease,
If he but bathe therein.
Oh, to be sprinkled from the wells
Of Christ's own sacred Blood excels
Earth's best and highest bliss:
The ministers of wrath divine
Hurt not the happy hearts that shine
With those red drops of His.
Ah, there is joy amid the Saints,
And hell's despairing courage faints,
When this sweet song we raise:
Oh, louder then, and louder still,
Earth with one mighty chorus fill,
The Precious Blood to praise!
50. Sing, Sing, ye Angel Bands.
Sing, sing, ye Angel bands,
All beautiful and bright;
For higher still, and higher,
Through the vast fields of light,
Mary your Queen ascends,
Like the sweet moon at night.
A fairer flower than she
On earth hath never been;
And, save the throne of God,
Your heav'ns have never seen
A wonder half so bright
As your ascending Queen.
O happy Angels! look,
